Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(30)
That’s where I am now. Not in Seattle, in the car, listening to news about Seattle. The violence has “tipped over.” That’s how they’re putting it. “Food riots.” Mobs are looting grocery stores, beating people up. Killing some. Stabbings, shootings. And not just in the city. Something about a sniper on the I-90. That’s the main east–west highway across the mountains, the one they’re depending on for supplies.
This guy, it sounded like just one guy, the “I-90 Sniper,” he hid in the trees and started shooting at these army trucks. The road’s closed now. They don’t know if there are more snipers out there.
From everything I’m hearing, the army and the cops are being “redeployed” to Seattle to “restore order.” And they’re recalling some of our troops home from Venezuela, but it sounds like that’s going to take a long time. Some reporters are speculating about how long it’s going to delay relief efforts in the actual disaster zone, and how many more people are going to die while they wait to be rescued.
I feel so bad for all these people, and guilty that my first thought wasn’t for them. We’re really gonna be stuck all winter. No doubt about that anymore. That mental needle I’ve talked about, it’s pointing 100 percent toward Mostar. We’re stranded. That’s it. Everything we do, everything we think about, has to be devoted to surviving.
At least we don’t have to worry about injury or exposure. That’s what the radio said will be the number one and number two causes of death out there. But for us it’s food.
Food.
Last night, over a dinner of rabbit stew, I showed Mostar my “calorie calendar.” Applying her ration plan to how much edible material we had, I figured we’d run out somewhere around Christmas Eve.
“Okay.” Mostar just nodded at what I thought was a devastating fact. “Good to know.”
“Good!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “How is that good?”
Mostar chewed a mouthful of stew, winced at something, then spat a shard of bone into her napkin. “Good to know if we’re getting to that point with no relief, we can half our rations, then half them again. People have lived on a lot less for a lot longer. Trust me.”
She raised her stew mug, downing the last gulp, then ran her tongue around the inside border. “Bowls next time. Easier to lick.”
“But what about when our food does run out?” I pressed. “When there’s nothing.”
“Then we eat nothing.” Mostar poured the remaining water from her glass into her mug, covered the mug with her palm, then sloshed it around for a few seconds. “We can live for a month or so like that.”
She drank the cloudy contents, licked her palm, then added, “But it’ll probably never come to that, Katie, because by that time the garden should be ready for harvest.”
“Will it?” was all I could manage. “And how much can we expect to get from two sweet potatoes and half a handful of peas?”
“No idea.” Mostar shrugged, completely unfazed that the whole endeavor might have been a giant waste of calories. “But I’m sure some of our neighbors will have come around by then and even if they don’t have too much extra food to share, some of that food might have seeds for the garden. And”—she raised her well-washed mug to the window—“there’re always more opportunities out there.”
I saw the target of her toast was a skinny squirrel poking through our now-empty apple tree.
“I might be able to make more of those traps,” she mused, “but we’ve got to be careful that none of our neighbors step in one. We can’t afford to alienate anyone. Cooperation’s more important than a quick meal.”
I’m not so sure. There are a lot more rabbit stews out there. And how long could we live off just one deer? I know Mostar’s at least considered it. The way she looked at the doe sniffing around our yard.
That’s exactly how I looked at the buck Palomino was feeding.
As I watched the girl giving away more precious apple slices to that walking feast, my eye caught a couple squirrels just chowing down on the Boothes’ herb garden. Bobbi was at her kitchen window, doing dishes, I guess. She was watching the rodents with this pained expression. Was she afraid to chase them away while her neighbor was being so “kind and generous” to these poor defenseless creatures? Or was she genuinely conflicted, caught between ingrained ideology and the cold hard truth?
I don’t know, and right now I really don’t care. I know what I was thinking, and what I saw, and smelled! I thought maybe I’d go over there to save the herbs. I wasn’t going to be aggressive, just walk loudly enough to scare the squirrels, then claim ignorance and maybe later accept a belated thank-you. I was trying to do something nice. That’s all. But as I got closer to her house…
I know she saw me. Her head didn’t move but I saw her eyes flick in my direction. I know that’s why she closed her window, and the curtains. And as she did, the faintest breath of warm air from her kitchen wafted past my nose. Fried food. Hash browns.
Potatoes!
Bitch! Yes, I said it! Fucking liar! That’s why she’d been so uncomfortable when I’d asked her. She knew she had some. She knew and she lied!
And as I write this, I don’t know who I’m more angry at. Her or me. I could have confronted her about it. Knocked on her window, totally gone apeshit in her face. Or maybe just called her out in that cold, judgy, sarcastic way Mom used to use. “Oh hi, Bobbi, I just wanted to let you know I was trying to save your herb garden just now ’cause, you know, we gotta look out for each other, right? Sharing, pulling together. Community, right? RIGHT?”